


Guilty until proven innocent

by DarkShadeless



Series: Law & Order: Star Wars [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Crime, Gen, M/M, Mafia AU, expect... crime, extortion?, how many mob cliches can I pack into one series?, if this reads like an 80s mob movie, just beware, let's find out XD, lots of complicated backgrounds, not kidding about the graphic depictions of violence, not sure what else to warn for, other peeps - Freeform, prison (mentioned), set in the early 2000s, sexwork (also mentioned), some blood, the 'How the Gang met' montage, then that's because that's exactly what this is, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: The picture Jorgan slaps down on the table is creased and worn at the edges. "Any of them look familiar, Shan?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More Mafia AU :D

Theron has barely set foot into the station, all of an hour cleared from medical leave, when Detective Jorgan ambushes him in the hallway. “With me, Shan.”

Wow. Someone is in a mood today. “Hello, how are you? How good to see you’re back,” he mutters to himself but he obeys. He’s about as low in the food chain as it gets. Getting uppity with the seniors will only get him in trouble.

But it seems he’s in trouble whether he goes looking for it or not. Jorgan makes a beeline for an empty interrogation room, of all things. Theron can already tell where this is going.

_Great. What did I do now?_

The answer isn’t long in coming. Soon as he has parked his ass in the suspect's chair Jorgan slaps a picture down on the table between them. It’s a photograph, creased and worn at the edges. Theron recognizes the focus immediately. Dr. Scarano, the defense attorney. Yonya. _Call me Yon, _he had said when he visited him in the hospital, not that anybody else had bothered, and he had leaned in and given Theron a smile that had his heart miss a beat.

All of that flashes through his mind in the blink of an eye. That smile, a touch too canny to be trustworthy and just enough to promise an adventure. His cologne. How he had looked in the dark in that warehouse, pale but still standing his ground-

“You know I do,” Theron glances over the rest of the picture. It’s a nice one, taken in a restaurant. There’s still food on the table and the people sharing it seem to be having a good time. Yonya, Yon, is laughing. “What’s this about?”

Jorgan’s mouth pulls into the most severe frown Theron has ever seen on the man and that’s saying something. “You don’t have the first idea what you’re playing with, Shan.”

“Then why don’t you _tell _me?” So much for not giving his senior officers lip.

The detective doesn’t even blink. He looks down at his photo with an intensity that makes Theron uneasy. “Scarano. He’s as rotten as they come. We’ve been investigating him for years.”

The words settle into Theron’s gut, heavy as a boulder. “What?”

“His whole family is suspected to be tied up in mob business, Shan.”

Oh, god. That’s… That’s something else. “He- but-“ _‘But he saved my life_,’ is the first thing that comes to mind. He has to take a moment to get his thoughts in order. It’s a small wonder Jorgan actually gives it to him. He isn’t exactly known for his soft touch. “If that’s true, how hasn’t he been disbarred?”

Jorgan’s mouth twists even more and suspicion rears its ugly head. _Ah_. _So that's what this is._ Slowly, Theron leans back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You have no proof, do you.”

“The company he keeps speaks for itself.”

Last Theron checked hanging out with anybody, criminal or not, wasn't illegal. "Oh, really? And what company would that be?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Left to right. Robert Pierce, career criminal. Started young. Racked up charges like it’s a sport, skated on most. Trespassing, extortion, affray, battery, you name it. Last the NYPD knows he did some time up in Rikers for aggravated assault, got out on good behaviour and dropped off the map. _

* * *

Pierce walks out into the bright December sun and the only reason he doesn’t stop to soak it up is that hiding weakness is less a choice, now, and more a well-honed reflex. He’s not dropping the soap for anyone anytime soon.

The air is so cold it burns in his lungs. Sweet freedom. _About time._

It’s a ride and a half before he’s shod of Rikers but the doorsill counts. He’s out. And it only took forever.

_Shining the Warden’s boots too. _

Can’t forget that and he won’t. Pierce has been on his very best behaviour. The things you do to draw the ‘get out of jail’ card. If he catches one of those assholes that had him scrape and bow in a dark alley, they’ll wish they’d never been born. 

But never mind that. He’s got a few more pressing concerns, like getting to his designated parole officer in the next 48 hours. Small details like that.

“Scrapping and bowing not quite over yet, old boy.” _Let’s get this show on the road._

How Pierce gets through his meeting with Braga is anyone’s guess. He plays it up, smiles and nods at all the right moments. Barga is _delighted_ with him. It’s the next best thing to torture but what can you do. Gotta play it safe.

All the talk about starting a new chapter and turning a page and leaving the burdens of his old life behind him grate. Pierce knows where he’s headed. Put on a monkey suit, commute to work to sit behind a desk all day? Yeah, that’s not him. He needs some action. Three years in Rikers haven’t worn that out of him. He can sit those out in his sleep. If anything they’ve honed his edges a bit keener.

But he’s not a junky, in for a fix. He keeps his head down, gets his affairs in order. He buys the monkey suit and goes to the interview for the desk job he doesn’t want. They don’t take him but he goes. Pierce didn’t expect them to, Braga’s optimism notwithstanding. Just another reason to go with plan A, not that he’ll tell his parole officer that.

He knows how the world works. Pierce grew up poor and he grew up fast. Even when he was a scrawny kid he wasn’t content to be the guy on the bottom of the rung. That’s what got him out of there, determination, grit and his hard head. Those are what got him into prison, too, but that’s neither here nor there.

So, time for a reality check. He’s thirty-five, finished high school and didn’t bother with more because he couldn’t afford it. Cash is cash and you need money to live.

… maybe someone will take him on as a bouncer. Is that even viable with his parole requirements? What a drag.

Now, technically, Pierce isn’t supposed to contact pretty much anyone he ever knew. Please, who hasn’t committed a felony or two?

Phenter, that’s who. Sly bastard never was caught for whatever he was up to. There was a time Pierce gave him shit for that. Not too much, thankfully. Phen still picks up, once he finally runs his number down.

-_Robert. Long time no see_.-

-_Hardehar, Phent. Good one_.-

His bastard friend chuckles drily. -_My apologies. How’s it going?_-

-_Could be better_.- Understatement, if no the biggest one he could’ve made.

-_Need a hand?_-

Pierce is a proud man but… there’s pride and then there’s shooting yourself in the foot. -_If you don’t mind_.-

-_Sure, no problem. I’ll see what I can shake loose_.-

And shake he does, like a three dollar hooker. Phent’s efficient like that.

“I’m really not supposed to be out at this time of day, no offence.” Much less in this kind of neighbourhood. If Braga catches wind of this he’ll have kittens by the litter.

A gust of wind howls past, blowing snow into a smashed store front. The flurries get lost barely a foot in in the pitch-black interior. _Cozy._

“Relax.” Easy for Phenter to say, he’s not the one who’s looking at another two if his parole gets pulled. “We’re almost there. Remember-“

“Best behaviour. Jeeze. I got it the first five times.” It’s almost like Pierce is getting dragged to an actual job interview. At 1 am. In an abandoned backstreet. Phent even had him put on his suit, what the hell.

The man in question stops to give Pierce the stink eye. “I’m serious, alright? You piss these guys off, you’re toast. Me too. So try not to, if you would.”

“Touchy.”

“You have no idea.”

If he was someone who got bothered by shit like this, Pierce might get worried right about now.

Pf, who is he kidding? If he was someone like that he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Phenter turns his collar up against the icy breeze and picks the next left. The side street is claustrophobic enough to remind Pierce of his cell. Rundown, blackened brick stone buildings rise tall on either side with rusty fire ladders crawling up the walls. Hazard if he ever saw one. No telling when those’ll come down.

But not tonight, probably. At least not before they reach their destination.

Phent pulls ahead and ducks into an alcove. The door’s just as rusted as the ladders but it opens easily enough when his friend knocks. The guy holding it has a full head on Pierce and is just as wide in the shoulders. He’s a freaking walking tank. Under his coat he’s wearing a suit that doesn’t hide that he’s packing.

_What did Phen get me into here? The penguin club?_

“Maxwell Phenter, introducing Robert Pierce. We’re expected.”

Mr. Penguin musters them for a second, waves them inside. The interior is just as rundown as the rest of the building. They look right out of place, in their more or less decent getup. From farther in there’s some muted conversation. Not loud enough to understand. Something about it pulls Pierce up short.

He’s been inside long enough he’s learned to listen to his instincts. Instead of steamrolling on, like he usually would, he pulls up his most charming smile. “Nice night out, huh?”

Goon number 1 hesitates, then pulls a face. “Wish it was.” His eyes flicker to Pierce’s company. “I’ll be honest with you, today’s not a good day for this.”

He sounds… kind of worried actually. About as worried as the frown that finds its way onto Phent’s face. “Something happen, Angelo?”

“Caught one of the temps taking a five-finger discount. Capo junior’s pissed.”

“Are you serious?” Phenter reaches up to rubs the bridge of his nose. “God, what timing. How pissed are we talking?”

“Well, when the idiot realized he was busted he tried to make the new girl take the fall. Y’know, the one our little boss picked himself. Hell’s nice and toasty compared to his mood.”

“Great.”

“Just go right in. Better not keep him waiting.”

Phenter nods amiably and picks up the pace. Not much to see here. The building must have been a factory, once upon a time. There’s still signs on the water stained walls, warning employees to adhere to the safety standards. Probably a bit late for that.

Pierce wanders after his guide, turning their welcome over in his head. “Mob, huh?”

“Problem?”

_Would have been good to know in advance, _is on the tip of his tongue but in the end, what does it matter? That’s his issues talking. He trusts Phent much as he trusts anyone these days, Pierce has just learned to dislike surprises.

“Thought you said something about, what was it? ‘Pretty legal, at least on paper’?”

That earns him a _look_. “I did. Scarano can make that happen, all you have to do is ask. Your ball and chain will be ecstatic.”

Which would be good. It would be _great_, only, “No offence but I’m not looking to make debts I can’t pay.”

Pierce has rarely been mixed up with the mafia, too small a fish, but he knows how they operate. Good business, long as you stay on their good side. If you _don’t_, trouble finds you faster than you can outrun it.

“Pierce.” Stopping in the middle of the hallway Phenter gives him a frown that makes him want to bristle. Pierce curbs the instinct with some effort. “You asked me to do you a favour. That’s what I’m doing. You need to take this job.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Phenter’s already hushed voice drops further. “You heard my man Angelo. ‘Capo junior’. The Scarani’s youngest is leaving the nest. He’s running on loaners but it won’t be long before he finds his feet. If you get in now and get in good you can go quite a ways. Don’t throw this chance away, it won’t come around again.”

Put like that… On the other hand, does he want to work for a snot-nosed Italian brat? Phenter doesn’t give him the chance to figure that one out. Probably for the same reason he didn’t say anything sooner. It’s really bothersome to realize your friends know you well enough to _manage_ you.

The hall opens into a workshop, twice as high and with ancient, domed lamps hanging from the ceiling. Most of them are busted. There’s just enough light to guess at what the abandoned machinery against the walls might have been used for before the place was closed down and locked up.

The first thing that draws Pierce’s eye is the girl. Pretty thing. Waif-thin, with that heart-shaped kind of face models would kill for. Her short hair is bubblegum blue.

She’s also really unhappy, arms wrapped around herself which leaves her cuddling the pinstripe jacket she’s holding.

The owner has his shirtsleeves meticulously rolled up to the elbow, not that it’ll help any. Pierce can see the blood spatter from here.

“Philipe, a che diavolo stavi pensando, eh?”

Now Pierce doesn’t speak a word of Italian past ‘spaghetti’ but he doesn’t need a translation. Someone is in deep shit. That ‘Philipe’ is cuffed to a chair and looks like he has been worked over by Jonny from block D is also a nice clue. His interrogator grabs him by the throat and bends him back until he chokes. “You know, I thought being a part of our family _meant_ something to you.”

Aw shit. Watching a grown man start to cry never does get any prettier.

Bubbglegum girl winces. She’s doing her level best to look at anything but the guy that, if Pierce is putting this together the right way, tried to frame her for his own fuck-ups. Wide blue eyes catch his for all of a second before she glances away again.

… damn it. And here he thought he left all of his chivalry somewhere on a curb in the Bronx, right next to his milk teeth. Under Phenter’s alarmed hiss of, “What the fuck are you doing?” he risks a beeline to the left.

“Hey little lady.”

The scoff that earns him is more spirited than Pierce would’ve given her credit for. “Can it, Rambo.”

Well, she’s got his number. Pierce fishes for his cigarettes with a chuckle. “Care for a square?”

“You know, the last guy who asked me that is sitting over there.”

Got a mouth on her, he’ll give her that, even if every glance where the action is at makes her cringe. “Just thought you might need a bit of a distraction.”

Pierce weathers a look as sharp and assessing as any he might have caught behind bars. He’s got to pass muster, Bubblegum Girl’s shoulders slump about a half inch. _Tough as nails, huh?_

“Yeah, still no. …thanks.”

“No biggie.”

She gives him a small smile. It lights up her whole face, like a damned heartbreaker. Too young for him, no question, but Pierce has got eyes. “I’m Vette. You got a name?”

“Sure.” There’s half a joke on his tongue that never sees the light of day.

“I’d like to know that, too.”

_Holy shit. _All too late Pierce recognizes the threat in his comfort zone. Looks like Shirtsleeves got tired of knocking around Philipe. Or he _really_ likes his girl, enough to notice some asshole chatting her up while he’s in the middle of something. _The jealous type? _

That could get hairy.

How did Pierce not see him coming? Up this close the guy’s a midget, of a height with his girlfriend, but he knows how to make room for himself. Pierce glances at innocent, unsurprised blue eyes and tries to decide whether he’s been played or not. Probably a bit of both.

Shirtsleeves plucks his cigarette right from his lips and takes a drag. “Where are my manners? Yonya Scarano. I’d shake your hand but,” he shakes out his bloodied fingers nonchalantly. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Robert Pierce. Pleasure.” Maybe he should be more polite, curb the sass. This one’s dangerous. Pretty boy, to go with the pretty girl, polished under the sweat he has worked up. It makes the dark fire in his eyes stand out all the more, just like the blood on his lily-white shirt.

“Pierce, hm.” Scarano glances over at where Phenter does his best impression of a constipated bulldog. “You the new guy?”

Fortune favours the bold. Especially if Vette is an example of the kind of person Shirtsleeves wants to have around. “If you’ll have me, I guess.”

There’s the breathless pause of lackeys who don’t know their boss well enough to predict his reaction before a bright laugh cuts over the background noise of Philipe’s sobs. “Oh, I think I like you. For the record?” He rolls Pierce’s damned cancer stick between his fingers. “No smoking on the job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for ppl on mobile (no guarantees that the Italian is sound XD I've done this to the best of my ability)
> 
> _A che diavolo stavi pensando_ \- What the hell were you thinking


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For MercuryPilgrim! Because I know how you love Quinn ;)
> 
> Some (briefly alluded) homophobia in this chapter, just as a heads up.

_Malavai Quinn. Ex-army, Lieutenant, Special Forces. Served eight years, including stationing in Iraq and various classified operations. Was coming up on his promotion to Captain when he earned himself a court martial for anything from insubordination to sexual harassment._

_Woah.  
_

_I swear to god, it’s people like him who give the entirety of the armed forces a bad name._

* * *

Malavai Quinn has done what he felt was right his whole life. He conformed, he studied hard and he excelled.

But he also was the one in senior high to report Mr. Hitchens for the way he made Mandy uncomfortable in P.E., the one who got into scrapes with the football team when they tried to push him around. It hadn’t made him popular but that wasn’t the point. Like his father always said, real men stand up for themselves. They do the right thing.

If dad could see him now.

Small mercies that Quinn senior was alive just long enough to congratulate him on his commission, as cold as the thought makes him feel.

Refusing General Broysc’s direct order had been his only option. The only _viable_ one. He had saved the lives of good soldiers that day and in the end their mission had been a success.

A success Malavai ended up paying the price for and then some. Broysc’s cronies nailed him down on every slight, real or imaginary, that they could conceivably throw at him. As it turns out standing up for what’s right doesn’t mean you’ll come out on top. Eight years Malavai has served his country, so that he could end up with a military prison sentence and the closest thing to a dishonourable discharge a commissioned officer can get.

It’s not enough to wear him down, not immediately. Not until he’s back home, struggling to adapt, to make ends meet and hits an invisible wall at every turn. His discharge, his record, his sentence. The damned DADT breach they marked him with. If one of those doesn’t get to a potential employer, the rest will.

He’s a vet without a pension and without a support network. His mother moved back to Pennsylvania after his father died and he can’t bring himself to tell her how much he is struggling.

-_I’m doing alright. Don’t worry. Do you need anything?-_

_-Oh, I’m fine! Just take care of yourself, will you, Malavai? You always were such a driven boy.-_

_-Of course.-_

Some days the only spot of light is that she doesn’t believe a word of the charges levelled against him. Or so she says, on the phone. There’s more than one reason Malavai hasn’t visited. Call him a coward but he doesn’t want to look at his mother’s face and realize- Malavai keeps these doubts at bay with the same brittle determination that gets him up in the morning.

It doesn’t always work. Does she really believe him? He should be the one taking care of _her_. He should be making her proud and giving her grandchildren to fawn over. So many things Malavai thought were certain, cornerstones of his life yet to come, have been overturned.

No sense falling down that rabbit hole. He has to move forward.

By the time he manages to find a job as a doorman he’s _glad_ for it. It adds insult to injury but at least Malavai’s no longer unemployed.

There’s something comfortable about being… the help. The routine is strict, proper attire required. For all intents and purposes he’s invisible.

Malavai doesn’t mind being invisible. Undercover work is not so different. What keeps him going is the knowledge he’s doing his job and doing it well, even if- Yes. His life was different, when he still had a purpose. At least it’s enough to get him out of bed.

He doesn’t stop to think how he landed a highly visible, if not very prestigious, position at an institution high class enough to _require_ a doorman until one of the name-giving lawyers of the resident firm pauses on his way home, late at night.

Baras Scarano hums to himself as he musters the evening traffic. “It must grate.” It takes Malavai a moment or two before he realizes he’s being spoken to. Mr. Scarano smiles at him mildly. “A man with your qualifications and experience could do much better.”

Stunned, Malavai is at a loss of what to say. The musing fits too well to the things that haunt him when he allows it.

_How does he even know who I am?_

He wouldn’t have thought someone like Dr. Scarano fussed himself over the people underfoot. Even now he ignores his own bodyguard with practiced ease, flaying Malavai with a look. “Think about it, Mr. Quinn, if you would.”

* * *

_Two years later_

Malavai ducks into the limousine without hesitation, or hurry. Both are eye catchers he has long left behind, before he put down his green beret for the last time. The driver peels away from the curb moments after the door closes behind him.

Fastidiously he pulls his leather gloves straight, before he inclines his head in greeting. “Sir.”

“Quinn. Punctual, as always.”

“Of course, sir.”

Baras laughs quietly. “Such a gentleman. You know, I appreciate that about you.”

And it’s nice to be appreciated, especially if that regard comes with benefits of its own. Malavai accepts the compliment with a murmured thanks. Modesty is key. He has no need to boast, his success speaks for itself.

“I trust Mr. Cavanaugh will not bother me again.”

“He won’t, sir.”

“Very good.”

They traverse rush hour traffic with the fits and starts Malavai has grown used to, since he returned to New York. Patience has returned to him, with the clear lines of order restored to his life. The hands he receives his missions from are different these days but the details are familiar enough to fall into well-worn routine.

Baras drums his fingers onto the car seat in a calculated bid for attention. Little his employer does is without cause, or control. Malavai… admires that, not a little. “I have a task for you.”

“Already, sir?”

“Yes, it’s not your usual though. Or rather, it is and it isn’t.” With a deft hand Baras plucks a picture from his wallet and slides it across the seat. It’s of a young man, impeccably dressed. He’s talking to an older, black man, also in suit and tie. They have the courthouse for a backdrop, unless Malavai is missing his mark. “My nephew, Yonya.”

Malavai can’t quite make out the family resemblance, if there is one. The Scarani have quite a few branches and familial titles needn’t be an indication of actual relation. One only needs to consider Zia Leliana, aunt to anyone within her sphere of influence. “Has he displeased you?”

“Oh, no. Of course not, much as I lament his choice in… acquaintances," Baras clicks his tongue and musters the photograph. "He has finally managed to convince our dear Nonna that he’s responsible enough to take care of himself.” In other words: he has earned his stripes. He looks a little young to Malavai’s eyes but it’s not his place to judge.

“My congratulations.”

“Thank you. I know how ambitious you are, Malavai, and I do fear your room for growth in my little kingdom is limited.”

He’s not wrong. Malavai serves the man who has plucked him from the lowest point of his life and given him options more than gladly but he does find himself restless sometimes. Baras’ hold on his turf is decently established, his people know their place. Sometimes he feels more like a wrench in the works than a cog of the machine. An outsider. Malavai’s tasks are well-defined and his leeway finite.

Baras first words to him are as true now as they were two years ago, if in a different way. He could do more. He hesitates to think ‘better’, it feels too much like a slight towards his patron.

By the knowing gleam in Baras' eyes he has been caught in his hesitation. “I hear our Yonya is looking for fresh blood. He’s still finding out what he likes and needs and so wilful.” His employer sighs affectionately. “Youth. He won’t appreciate his old uncle meddling in his affairs but he might take advice from a friend and I would like him to have a _sensible_ one for a change. I do think you would get along nicely.”

Malavai studies the photo as he turns this over in his head. Maybe they would. Even if not, every Caporegime needs a good cleaner and it's not prideful to say he is one of the best. “He won’t mind my… colourful history?”

Baras makes a face at the reminder that has Malavai shrinking inside. He has worked with some of the most hardened criminals he has ever met and if a collaboration goes sour it doesn't because of his criminal record. Most people he meets have him beat on that front.

No, what generally trips him up these days is that his supposed affinity for male company is a matter of public record.

His benefactor huffs. “Trust me, he won’t care. Your time in my employ will speak for itself. Your loyalty is all he will require proof of. Can I rely on you in this matter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Very good.”_  
_

* * *

The mystery of why Baras would be so sure his nephew won’t give a damn about whom Malavai prefers to sleep with or not doesn’t reveal itself until he meets him and then… it is rather obvious.

He’s not overt about it. It’s nothing you could nail him down on but there is something about him, about the way he holds himself, that’s more than confidence. Yonya Scarano is a man that knows he looks good and he revels in it. He _uses_ it in a way Malavai has rarely seen in other men.

... because most men in the circles he has moved in are not _flamingly gay_ and if they are, they do their best to keep it in the closet.

The part of him honed by years of sniper training and field work that always analyses his surroundings clinically files that away, alongside the likelihood that the group Scarano is laying down the law to while Malavai waits his turn will work for him long term.

Most of them won’t. They might, if Scarano wasn’t aware enough of personal opinions they are keeping to themselves but his charming smile is a little too sharp for that kind of obliviousness. No, he knows what he is showing the world and he is doing it on purpose. Anyone who is fool enough to cross him over it will get themselves in more trouble than they can handle.

Malavai finds his attention snared by that self-assuredness despite himself. He realizes too late that he is… looking. He shouldn’t be. He should never have. If he hadn’t, if he had just managed to keep this inclination that _didn’t matter_ a secret, he could have avoided at least some of the mess he got in-

Scarano glances his way. Their eyes meet.

Time seems to slow down for the span of a heartbeat as he favours Malavai with an assessing once-over of his own.

Then, as Malavai’s hands grow clammy, he _smiles_. It makes Malavai's throat go dry but he can't seem to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Italian:
> 
> _Zia_ \- Aunt  
_Nonna_ \- Grandmother  
  
_Caporegime_ (or '_Capo_' for short) - Historical meaning: head of a family, head of a group. Over time it has become a title for a fully initiated, ranking member of the mafia (or other crime syndicate, if the same terminology applies), notably someone who is in charge of a branch of the organization and leads a group semi-independently. This position comes with a certain social status and influence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some misogyny in this chapter and the tagged mentions of sex work. Consider yourself warned.

_Cynthia Nelson, also known as ‘Vette’. Daughter of Delilah and Joseph Nelson, may God rest their souls._

_Looks like a sweet girl. _

_Don’t let her baby blues fool you. Trouble as the day is long. Shoplifting, petty theft and vandalism. Suspected of theft, larceny, burglary, forgery and identity theft. Allegations of smuggling have been made but never proven. More active when she was a minor and she looks like a bloody angel. I had to scrape half of what she was caught on together by hearsay, ‘cause it was handled off the record. Been lying low for a few years now._

_She might have turned a new leaf._

_With the guys she pals around with? My money says she got better at hiding her tracks._

* * *

They catch Vette red-handed. Not much to give in way of excuses, when the guards walk in on you half-way into the file cabinet, really. Not that that _stops_ her. 

“It’s all just a big misunderstanding? I took the wrong turn?”

The brute tows her along without a glance. He’s got a grip like a vice.

“Come on, big guy. Give a girl a break. It’s my first day on internship, I didn’t _do _anything, pinkie swear!”

Yeah, she hadn’t, because she hadn’t gotten around to it. They must have had a silent alarm Vette missed when she downed the rest of the system.

_I knew this job was too good to be true. _

From the moment Three Eyes had pushed it her way, her gut had been screaming. All that money, for getting her hands on a bit of paper? Not out of Fort Knox either, just the office of some big shot lawyer.

_With a security system fit for a bank. What did I get into here?_

She should have gotten out when she saw the fuse box but by then it was too late. Vette can’t go back to Sullivan without results. She _can’t_.

“Look, I get it, this doesn’t look good. I’m cooperating, okay?” It’s not ideal but it wouldn’t be the first time Vette had to get lost in transit somehow, double back to finish the job. She can manage. She’d feel much better if she’d get some sort of reaction out of this guy, though. Nothing is… it’s not good. “How long until the cops are here anyway?”

He plants her ass in one of the fancy chairs she snuck past on the way in. Alongside the wooden wall panels they make the place look like an office straight out of a movie. Her guard pushes her into the upholstery with more force than strictly necessary.

“Cops? Sweetheart, you have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

* * *

When she was small, she never thought that’s what she’d end up like. Who would?

Vette never does find out what the whole mess that is her ticket to the underbelly of New York was about. She barely remembers her dad and mom would never talk about it, while she was still around. Most days Vette can forgive her for that. Some days she can’t.

Neither of the Nelson daughters know what’s coming, until it does.

But that’s not for a while.

They’re an ordinary family. Parents, two kids up to no good. Tivva, turning heads wherever she goes, and her, the baby. Dad works hard, at his tiny bodega. Mama’s a housewife, at least while Vette is little.

That’s how she remembers it. Playing on the rug and watching cartoons, while mom does the laundry. She hums to herself as she folds the sheets. Vette’s sister will be home soon, from school. Maybe she’ll tell her about her new boyfriend later, when her parents can’t hear, and watch Vette make faces because _boys, ugh_.

_You’ll get it one day_, she’ll say. Vette hasn’t gotten around to that yet, so who knows.

That’s her childhood, right there. Right up until the end.

When she’s ten, one night her dad doesn’t come home.

Later, Vette’ll wonder just how he died. If her mother knew. If their neighbours did. Like Mrs. Maier, who will look in on her when mom is working late again. Or Mr. Cramer who will stop for a chat, if she runs across him and always gives her a few sweets.

She’ll wonder if one of them was there, maybe. If they saw it.

But that’s not for a while.

Mom works hard, longer hours than dad ever did. They don’t see much of her. When she’s home, she’s always tired and they’ll tiptoe around the tiny flat so she can nap. Tivva tries to make it a game but her baby sister isn’t actually a baby anymore. She can tell something’s not right, even if neither of them knows what or why.

That’s how it starts, with innocence slipping away in bits and pieces. With the realisation that there’s never enough money to go around, no matter how hard their mother tries to hide it.

She’s trying to protect them. It just doesn’t actually work.

Vette, well, she’s clever. Not a genius or anything but she gets by. She’s also a quick learner. So she watches the boys up the street dare each other into stupid shit, like snatching a ladies purse or someone’s wallet, and she thinks ‘yeah, I could do better than that’.

Turns out she has a hand for nicking things. Nothing big, little stuff. No one’ll miss it and the face her mom makes when she comes home and realizes there’s still milk in the fridge, or eggs, and she won’t have to buy groceries until tomorrow is worth it every time.

Later, she’ll wonder who watched her do it. Someone did, they must have.

But that’s not for a while.

Not until mom gets sick and doesn’t get better. If the window closed right, if they had the money to get a better doctor, or medicine, or- Anything. But they don’t. It’s not enough. Maybe nothing would have been. Sometimes, Vette thinks it wasn’t the cough that got her, not really. She was just… tired. All the time. Maybe it was that.

After the funeral, when the few guests have left, that’s when he finds them.

Harry ‘Three Eyes’ Sullivan is a thin man. Ugly as a rat, with the beard to match but no one’d dare make fun of him. The one time Vette giggled about it when she was tiny, mom gave her the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.

That’s something Vette will learn to understand. Because her mother? She was scared.

Mr. Sullivan comes to visit them, in their small flat with the worn down furniture that’s paid only until the end of the month, and that’s… that’s when a lot of things start to make sense.

* * *

“You see, Tiffany, I’m a businessman. I invest in our community, don’t I boys?”

Mr. Sullivan’s _friends_ make some agreeing noises. Vette tries not to fidget too much. Their living room isn’t big enough for guests, much less two thugs the size he brought along. She’s thirteen now and she can read between the lines.

“Now, I won’t beat around the bush. Your parents, may they rest in peace, they owed me some money, sweetheart. A lot of money.” His voice grows low, dangerous. “Sadly they’re not around anymore. But you are.”

Tivva is white as a sheet. When she put the tea out, her hands were shaking so badly she almost spilled it. The knot in Vette’s stomach grows bigger and colder as she watches her sister’s knuckles turn white. “I don’t have a job, Mr. Sullivan.” She hurries on, words stumbling over each other, “B-but I can get one! I can- I’ll- I won’t be any trouble I swear!”

Everybody knows what happens to people who are trouble for Mr. Sullivan. Vette curls her fingers into her sister’s dress and scoots closer. Tivva wraps an arm around her and pulls her close, until she can hear how fast her heart is beating.

Mr. Sullivan watches the both of them with a gleam in his eye. “No worries, honey. I’ve got one lined up for you. For your sister, too.”

Tivva’s breath stutters. “Please, Mr. Sullivan, you can’t- she’s just a child!“

A terrible silence falls. “Watch how you talk to me, girl.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

After a moment, he scoffs. “Least you know your place. Don’t worry, sugar, I’ve got something special for her. Hear you got some quick fingers, kiddo. Don’t you?”

She does. Vette has some of the quickest fingers around.<strike></strike>

That’s just as well. She watches her sister go out every night, put on the cheap jewelry, the make-up, the clothes and… the truth is, Tivva’ll never make enough to pay off their debt. But Vette? She can do it. If she gets good enough, far enough, if she just finds the right mark, the right job.

There’s a lot of money to be made if you’re just a bit clever and pickpocketing change is only the beginning. All Vette has to do is grab her chance and run with it, run and never look back. Never think twice. She can’t afford to hesitate. So Vette doesn’t and it’s what makes her so very good.

That’s what gets her, when it comes down to it. The lure. The chase for that _one job_ that will be enough.

_As if anything could ever be enough._

Vette’s pretty sure Sullivan won’t let her go, if he can at all help it and he can do a lot. But that’s alright.

She got good at what she does, better than anyone who ever taught her. Stealing’s not so bad. Her mom wouldn’t be thrilled, if she could see her, but after everything there’s not much Vette can do about that. Been a while since she was fussed about getting _herself_ out, even if her boss is a dick.

No, if she springs anyone, it’ll be her sister. Tivva, who has been stuck doing whatever she doesn’t want to talk about to scumbags every night. She’s popular but any girl with a pretty face can do what she does. Sullivan doesn’t need her like he needs Vette. That desperate hope is what drives her, for years.

Maybe it’s what finally gets her caught, too.

* * *

“Really? Not even a toilet break? Pretty please?” God, these assholes are actual professionals. Vette’s best smile doesn’t even make a dent. Seriously, she’s met _feds_ that caved on her. This doesn’t bode well.

She’d make a run for it, she’s quick enough but…

Goon number 2 shifts the arms he has crossed in front of his chest enough for her to get a flash of his holster. That’s a .38, semi-automatic, and if she’s wrong she’ll eat her sneakers. Vette’s fast but she’s not looking to get shot.

_Yeah, no. _There are easier ways to die, even if she has no idea what the alternative is. … or doesn’t want to think about what the alternative will be.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

Vette’s just a lackey. A nobody. That has its upsides and downsides and this isn’t the stickiest situation she’s ever been in. She’ll just… she’ll just have to wait and see.

If only she didn’t have such a _bad_ feeling about all this.

The law firm, the armed gorillas, the very fact that they’re not decking her for running her mouth… _Fucking hell, Sullivan you asshole. Whom are you messing with?_

The guy that walks through the door after they’ve made her wait forever and a day looks a little like he stepped out of a TV show, too. Suit and tie, clean shaven. Bit hard on the hair putty.

Mr. 38 holds the damned door for him and gets him a chair, as if he can’t do it himself.

“Thank you, Stefano. That will be all.”

“Sir-“

“Did that sound like a suggestion?”

Stefano has the good sense not to question him again. When the door falls into its lock behind him, Vette is left alone with the new guy and the growing bruise on her shoulder. He takes his time, pours himself a glass of… something… before he takes a seat across from her.

Underneath his amiable smile lurks something so sharp Vette finds herself checking for exits again. They’re just as thin on the ground as they were five minutes ago.

“I’d stay put if I were you.”

Busted. Fuck. Vette brushes her fingers through her hair and gives him her most innocent look. Throws in some wibbling, while she’s at it, because why not. “I just want to go home.” And isn’t that the god honest truth. Fuck Sullivan anyhow.

He musters her for a moment before huffs out a laugh. “Good one. Might have got me if I didn’t spend half of high school babysitting my cousin’s principesse. You wanna give that another shot?”

The silence stretches as Vette gropes for an angle, some way to approach this that might _work_. She has too little to go on and if she picks the wrong one she’ll do more damage than good.

Well… there’s always… he’s grimacing before she can do more than puff out her chest a bit.

“Please don’t. I’m as gay as a window.”

God _damn it._ This isn’t her day.

“Look. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.”

Vette can’t _not_ make a face at that. Whatever kind it is, it makes him laugh again. That’s… good right? Please let it be good.

“Okay. Maybe not quite as little as you do. But I’ll get to the point.” He swirls his alcohol in his glass and takes a sip. “Now, my grandmother taught me to never hit a woman, if I can help it. What can I say, she’s old-school.” With that charming aside to wash Vette’s insides with ice, he leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees. “Just to make sure we’re on the same page here, you will tell me what you were here for and who sent you, one way, or another. How that turns out is entirely up to you.”

_Shit._ Yeah, that’s about what Vette expected from the moment she realized the guys who caught her were carrying probably illegal firearms. It’s a wonder no one’s putting on literal thumbscrews yet.

Escape routes flash through her mind, even as she hides her shaking hands in her lap. If she could- but- Well, he doesn’t look like much. Can she take him? They wouldn’t have left her alone with him if she could, right?

But they might be underestimating her. They probably are. If she can knock him out, get a second of breathing room…

She glances at him from underneath her lashes, coy enough to distract from the intent. His eyes catch hers, unblinking. For some reason he’s smiling. “You get through that door, you’re dealing with my uncle’s men. You _want_ to have this conversation with me, Cynthia.”

_He knows her name. _Of all the things she pushed through tonight, that is the one that gets to her, reaches for her heart with icy fingers. He knows her name. Not even her moniker, her _name._

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. I have a reason to keep you alive.”

He says it like he’s reading the news. Car crash on 7th, the weather’s nice and balmy. Those gentlemen out there are going to kill you for breaking in here and lose your body somewhere it won’t be found.

_Shit. Fuck. Fucking hell. _Vette goes for flippant but she falls short by about a mile. “Thought you were gay as a window.”

“Oh, I am. And _you_ are pretty good. You could be better but you’re decent.” ‘_Decent_’. That’s not a word anyone has ever used in relation to Vette’s skills.

“So, what, you’re making me an offer I can’t refuse?”

“If you want to put it like that.” He tosses back his drink, smile gone. “Wasting talent like yours is nothing short of criminal. I'd hate for it to come to that. Work for me, or don’t, but you’re not leaving without telling _someone_ what you know.”

Vette’s first thought is that he’s lying. They’ll never let her go, not if what she was sent here for is important enough to kill for. But… that’s an awful lot of coincidence, running into a guy who knows who she is when she’s not out on work.

Even if he _is_ lying, cooperation might buy her the time she needs to escape. They can’t be sure she’s telling the truth and all of it, until they’ve got their hands on Sullivan. Once they do, chances are she won't have to worry about him anymore.

She’ll never get freelance work again, no one will employ a rat, but maybe she’ll be _alive_ to worry about bills and shit.

There’s just one problem.

Vette’s shoulders curve under realisation that she _can’t talk. _She can’t.

There’s a sigh. “Really?”

She could die here. Those guys, they’ll do god knows what to her until she talks. And she will talk, won’t she? So what’s the point? What’s the point to _all of it_, everything she’s doing?

The cold hard truth that Vette avoids however much she can is… it will never be enough.

Her heart hammers in her chest.

“… he’s got my sister.”

* * *

Yon slides into the backseat of the car on the passenger side, fixing his tie pin absently. A handy way to avoid his uncle’s obvious disapproval.

“I have what you wanted, zio.”

Baras sighs. “That’s something I suppose. I hear you took an advancement on a favour.”

Already? No one can claim his uncle isn’t well informed. “Yes.”

Getting Tiffany out of her predicament will take some finagling but uncle Baras’ men are good. They’ll manage. They always do.

“Really, nephew? I would have thought you had more sense than to fall for a pretty face.”

_Maybe not as well informed as all that, after all. _“You didn’t see her, uncle. She’s a treasure.” In more ways than one. Yon had known going in that the amateur thief known as ‘Vette’ was going places if she managed to live long enough. He hadn’t expected to enjoy her company. Live and learn.

“Madre di Dio. I’ll let your grandmother deal with this nonsense.”

Just as well. Nonna will understand. He’s a bit early picking up people when he’s still learning, himself, but who knows when an opportunity like this one will come around again?

One day he’ll have his own crew, his _own_ people, and now Vette might be one of them. He’ll have to wait and see. People are never completely predictable.

That’s half the fun, though, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Italian:
> 
> _Principesse_ \- princesses  
_Zio_ \- uncle  
_Madre di Dio_ \- mother of God


	5. Chapter 5

Theron lets his eyes wander over the people in the picture. Even without the background check they’re a colourful bunch. The girl’s hair is neon blue. Her worn jeans jacket and new age necklace clashes with the blazer on the guy next to her almost as much as with his military straight posture.

Nevertheless, Quinn’s half turned her way, a tiny smile tugging at his lips despite the obvious effort he’s putting into frowning. Scarano is watching them and not even trying to hide a laugh. He looks… good, in shirtsleeves. Relaxed.

At the other end of the table Pierce is snorting into his beer. They seem to be having a good time.

“Is that all you have? The people he hangs out with?”

Detective Jorgan’s expression is thunderous. That bodes well. “He’s a damned criminal and I will prove it. I’m going to nail Scarano to the wall, Shan, and you will help me.”

Oh, joy.

Theron has to push through a moment of internal struggle. On the one hand, Scarano, Yon, he did save his life. On the other if he is involved in something, if Jorgan is right… but it doesn’t matter either way. Jorgan is his superior. When he tells him to jump, all that’s left to talk about is how high.

_Damn it. _

Not for the first time since he started at the police academy, Theron wishes he could go to his father for advice. Not even for help, certainly not for a _favour_, just… to talk but he knows from experience how his dad will take that.

In absence of other options, he pulls the picture a little closer. “What about him?”

Between Scarano and Pierce there’s another guy. Young, maybe in his twenties. _Latino? Didn’t think the Italian mob went for that._

He is leaning on the table and watching Yonya laugh with a delighted smile of his own. Jorgan hasn’t mentioned him with a single word.

When Theron glances at the detective, his expression is grim. His habitual frown is carving even deeper lines into his face than usual. “Sewlor Whitmore.”

“And?”

“Twenty-five. Currently in grad school for Computer Science. Shady employment record. Picked up as a suspect after the death of his adoptive father in ‘08. Tried for murder, found innocent. Scarano defended him.”

There’s something here. Theron’s detective senses are tingling. “Something about this one bothers you.”

“Let it go, Shan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the epilogue :D  
  
Jorgan will arrest Yon of it's the last thing he does... however did they meet? We will find out, in the next story!


End file.
